


Come On Baby Light My (Kindle) Fire

by woodironbone



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale hates technology, Crowley loves technology, Domestic Fluff, Gen, M/M, sort of an au but it's not a big thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this were their home universe, Crowley would have invented the Apple store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On Baby Light My (Kindle) Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend, who prompted "Crowley buys a Kindle."
> 
> This is set in an RP game universe where I'm playing Aziraphale, buuut knowledge of the game world is not really integral to enjoyment of the piece. It's mostly just the context in which I've grown used to them.
> 
> Also I know they do not sell Kindles in Apple stores. But I don't care. Just go with it.

“Why've you dragged me here?” Aziraphale wants to know, adjusting the collar of his coat in a gesture of supreme discomfort as he passes a judgmental glance around the sterile insides of this so-called 'store.'

“I haven't _dragged_ you anywhere, angel, you came of your own, y'know. Inertia.” This with a vague wave of the hand. Crowley's attention is not on him at the moment, but on the _inventory_. “You don't quite understand, do you, that this is the _future_. The actual future, you know, our future. Well not ours, but... given everything we've learned—did you know Manchester actually exists here, just like it does at home, but without _me_? Probably a little different, but who can really say for certain—given all that, I think we could have expected to see this tech boom in a few years. In fact, if we ever do get back, you can bet I'll be getting right to it.” He extends a long hand to the little device standing on the display before him, stretching his fingers to touch it gently as one might a rare and beautiful artifact. The touchscreen is so marvelously sensitive that it lights up at the merest brush of his fingertips. He coos softly at it. “What a pretty little thing.”

“Crowley, would you please _stop that_ ,” says Aziraphale, aghast.

“Don't you listen to him,” Crowley tells the tablet. “He doesn't know an Apple from the tree, wouldn't know it if it clonked him right on the head. Would you, angel?” He turns, briefly, to grin open-mouthed at Aziraphale, tongue flicking between his teeth.

“Are you going to _buy_ anything or just _torment_ me fondling the merchandise,” Aziraphale says coolly.

Crowley straightens up. “Oh, I've already bought most of these,” he says. “We're not here for me, angel. We're here for _you_.”

“No,” protests Aziraphale.

“I'm afraid so.” Crowley strolls, saunters, _slithers_ further into the store, toward a particular display near the back. Various off-puttingly affable blue-shirted twentysomethings attempt eye contact or even to approach, but Crowley waves them all off, not so much with a wave but by putting out a _feeling_ , less of an unignorable dread and more of a 'oh don't mind me, I've _got this_.'

Aziraphale trails after him rather unwillingly. “I don't want to be in here,” he certainly does not whine. “I don't know what any of these things _are_.”

“You'll learn,” Crowley says mildly. “And I have just the gateway product for you.” He picks one up, casually disconnecting the impressively overdone cords tethering it to the display, as well as disarming the alarm; turns, takes Aziraphale's hand and slips the device into it.

Aziraphale holds the thin, unassuming little thing as though it were an extremely startled live skunk. “What is it,” he demands.

“It is called a Kindle,” says Crowley, “and it will single-handedly put you right out of business. This is the future of reading, angel. The _present perfect_ of reading. Go on, thumb through. No, not like that. Haven't you even _used_ the phone they—oh, just give it here.” Exasperated, he takes it back. Aziraphale's ridiculous manicured fingers may be deft at sifting through crumbling pages, and the occasional other action as well, but they might well be a bouquet of sausages they way he tries to go at a touchscreen with them.

“There we are, see?” Crowley turns the screen back to him. “That's your library. You can download hundreds of books onto here. Thousands. As many as you want. All of them, right there. In your bloody pocket. How's that?”

Aziraphale splutters for a moment, brows knitted in some consternation, before he finally looks up at the demon again. “That's _awful!_ ” he cries.

“It'll grow on you. Awful things tend to do. Come on now. It's a present; rude to turn down a present.”

“You can't just _take_ it,” Aziraphale points out.

“I _could_ do, as you well bloody know, but seeing as it's for _you_ , I _won't_.” Crowley smiles sweetly, tucks the Kindle under one arm and Aziraphale's wrist under the other—the angel takes his arm by sheer force of habit—and brings them all to the registers.

“Wrap this up for me, would you?” he says to the fashionably unfashionable bearded man behind the counter. The man takes it, seeming only a little confused that he does not quite recall having unlocked the device himself—and isn't it _supposed_ to come in a box?—and rings the whole thing up, humbly accepting Crowley's ostentatiously gold credit card.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale offers after willing a little extra money through the transaction, which appears in the form of a somewhat surprising tip jar, “have you considered I will not _use_ the ruddy thing?”

“You'll use it,” Crowley promises him. “Keep things around you long enough and your fingers get itchy. I've seen it happen.” He accepts the parcel in a stiff plastic bag and nods his thanks, veering away and drawing Aziraphale along with him. “You've got to learn to trust me, angel.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“You can thank me for the generosity later,” Crowley assures him. “Or now, if you like. There's a sushi restaurant a few blocks down that I'm keen to try.”

Aziraphale sighs heavily, enormously put upon, and regards both the package and his companion with the same frank, grudgingly affectionate suspicion.

“You're incorrigible, my dear,” he says. “All right then, but it's only because I owe you from the Ritz, not because of _that_.”

“However you like,” purrs Crowley, quite forgetting to let go Aziraphale's arm as he guides him down the street.


End file.
